The yams were a great treat after their recent diet of seafood and a bit of wild game. Brady knew they could easily tire of the tubers as they had crabs, but for this night it was a delicious feast. The raw crunchiness of the fibrous roots was even a pleasure. He pushed Cara to eat but nothing he said could distract the worry crinkling her brow. There was no way to spare her the trepidation of what the morrow might bring. He could only give her the comfort of his presence. “I wouldn’t have known to look for these,” he said after cleaning his knife and returning it to the sheath on his belt. “Never ate them raw before.” She idly spread out the tubers they’d washed and set out to dry. The yams would be heavy to carry but worth it. “I’ve eaten them raw before, but they’re better baked with some honey or mashed with butter.” The wind sighed through the trees, the taste of rain carried with it. They had little means to keep dry, and it promised to be a damp uncomfortable night.
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